Noctis
by arya.a23
Summary: Feyre lost her voice a year ago, during an incident that she is too embarrassed about to recount to anyone. Months later, she finds herself in the country of Prythian, full of gangs. Lover the Spring Leader, Feyre ends up trouble when trying to help him out of a big mess. But Feyre doesn't realise that being held a prisoner, meeting Rhysand, is exactly what she needs to be free.
1. Chapter 1

_Let me go with you._

"No."

The rejection was already in the air before Tamlin had even opened his mouth. Feyre didn't know why she tried this every time he left their apartment—he said no every single time.

But this time, she needed to go with him. Over the past few weeks she had been seeing less and less of Tam; he would wake up earlier than her every morning, pressing a quick goodbye kiss to her lips if she ever woke up when he did, and he'd return home during late hours of the night, times at which Feyre would already be asleep or would be so tired from waiting up for him they would never be able to go further than a few minutes of kissing before she fell asleep.

Just from those few minutes of seeing him, Feyre could tell he was stressed. And whenever she asked, he would shrug it off. She knew the risks of Tamlin's work, of how much trouble he could get into if any law enforcer decided to pay better attention to this part of the country, to Prythian, full of thieves and criminals and gamblers. He promised her every time, though, that he was safe—that _she_ was safe—but it didn't mean she wouldn't need to worry anymore.

She had even repeatedly pushed Lucien—Tam's best friend and right hand man—to tell her something, anything about what was going on. The only shred of response she had gotten was a hesitant, uncomfortable look from Lucien when she asked–or, rather, signed to—him if Tam was in trouble—and it was the only confirmation she needed.

Now what she needed was to find out exactly _what_ kind of trouble.

And what she could do to bring him out of it.

 _Tamlin_ , Feyre tried forcing her voice to actually do some good for once, reaching out to grab his large hand. He squeezed hers gently, leaning forward to place a kiss on Feyre's forehead. She sat up from her sleeping position on their bed, getting onto her knees so she would be eye level with him, placing her hands on his chest, clad in a tight T-shirt. She looked up at him, putting on the best pleading face she could.

All she received was a smile and another kiss in return. "You don't need to," Tamlin whispered against her skin, his hands moving downwards to hold her waist. "I'll… I'll try to come home early tonight, okay? We'll have dinner together, and..."

She finished the sentence for him for him with her hand, stroking it down his muscled chest to his crotch, feeling the hard lump there, for her, and smiling softly.

Tamlin's lips spread in a devilish grin, eyelids fluttering close. "Exactly," his voice was suddenly deep, hungry, "To make up for the past few weeks." He leaned forward to Feyre's ready lips, a soft kiss waiting for him. She silently whined when he pulled back seconds later, only to place another kiss on the tip of her nose. "I love you," Tam said, and all Feyre could do was lean back and watch as he turned his back to her and walked away. She sat back on their vast bed, holding the white sheets to her naked body, listening as his footsteps faded as he left the apartment, the front door shutting close behind him.

Getting up, Feyre strode to the little window next to their bed, pulling away the green curtains just slightly enough to see Tam walk out of the building, check his surroundings, and make his way to wherever he was going. Lucien, as he had promised her, was not accompanying Tamlin today—at least, not that early in the morning.

While with Tamlin everything was a direct "no" (although she understood… or tried to understand… why he behaved that way, because he was afraid of something happening to her in that horrible town, the one he was too tied to, to get out of, while she was too tied to him to leave), Lucien was more open to negotiation; his opinions were usually sided with her more than with Tamlin, yet when the time came for him to verbally admit so, he would never take that leap.

Feyre tried not to mind; she knew how much Tamlin had done for Lucien, how Lucien felt indebted to his somewhat best friend.

Yet, sometimes, with enough coaxing, Lucien would do Feyre a few favours, whether or not Tamlin approved. This was one of those days. Lucien had agreed to sneak her in and out of wherever it was that he and Tam were having their "business meeting", without Tamlin's knowledge, so she would at least know what was going on.

And figure out how to help him.

It was right after lunchtime when Lucien had appeared at Feyre and Tamlin's door, looking unsettled. He asked her repeatedly if she was sure, if she was really willing to go against Tamlin's wishes, and a determined, stern look from Feyre shut him up. Feeling awful for using him against his own friend—leader, too—Feyre made sure to express her gratitude as deeply as possible in the tight hug she gave him right before he escorted her out of the apartment.

"You need to be absolutely quiet, Feyre."

 _Are you kidding me?_ Feyre rolled her eyes at Lucien—but he seemed to be serious about it. "You know what I meant," He said, shaking his head, "Not verbally of course, but physically. Anything you do might set off some sort of alarm, and you'll get yourself and us in trouble. Don't even try to jump to Tamlin's defense if you think he needs it," His last direction was more direct, harsh, "They could kill you if they want. Or use you against Tamlin."

Shit. What kind of trouble was Tamlin in if—

"Feyre, are you sure you want to do this?" Lucien asked again, his voice soft, gentle. "Just give Tam some time, he'll sort everything out, we'll all be okay again."

Feyre shook her head and gestured for him to walk on. She was not backing out. Tamlin needed her. So, the two of them ventured down the street from Tamlin and Feyre's apartment.

Tamlin being one of the richest men in Prythian, wanted as much protection as possible for Feyre, and refused to live anywhere near the more common dark, dingy areas. This came to be a disadvantage for him, seeing as the main location of the gang—one of many in that town—that Tamlin was the leader of was in the heart of the town, where most of the criminals and rotten things resided. Feyre had pointed this out multiple times, but Tamlin refused to relocate. He simply wouldn't let her out.

Tamlin had even insisted, when Feyre had wanted to start working, that his earnings were more than enough to take care of them. But an income was not Feyre's greatest concern, it was freedom. She didn't like to admit it, but she had sometimes bickered with herself about how her life with Tamlin, as much as she loved him, felt… caged, restrictive. She wanted to get out. If he wouldn't let her explore the town, at least let her get a job where the small commute would be an outing enough.

This was one of the glorious favours Lucien had done for Feyre. It had cost him something, which he refused to admit to Feyre, no matter how earnestly she asked him, but within a week of Feyre asking Lucien for help, he had managed to convince Tamlin to let Feyre start working. While convincing had helped, Tamlin had gone with Feyre to all her trips scouting for a job, doing a full analysis of each area, its people, the possible threats that Feyre would be vulnerable to—down to every last discarded piece of trash on the floor that could potentially hurt her somehow.

He treated her like a porcelain doll, and perhaps her muteness added to that image, but Feyre knew she was not that weak or dependent on him. They had gotten into multiple fights over the subject, which always ended in a compromise from both their ends (which would gradually turn more in favour of Tamlin than Feyre), and a full night of them making love.

However, at least Tamlin had been giving her a good amount of freedom to go to work five times a week, or whenever he wasn't home. Ironically enough, for an illiterate girl, Feyre had chosen to work in a bookshop. She had hoped it would have helped her reading skills, but it had made not much of a difference except her being able to match alphabets and therefore keeping the store organized. She felt too ashamed of her disability, on top of her inability to speak, to ever ask her employer—a firm, kind lady named Alis—to help her out.

Besides, Tamlin and Lucien had been considerate enough to learn sign gestures so Feyre could communicate with them.

"We're almost there, keep your head low."

Lucien walked very close to Feyre now, enough that their arms brushed against each other as they moved. Feyre hadn't even noticed how far away from home they had gotten, or how incredibly unfamiliar and… unwelcoming… the area seemed. Worn out buildings made of stone and wood, tiny stalls open here and there selling items Feyre knew were far from legal, each dark alley leading to an even darker one, and unpleasant noises of motorcycles, pubs and harsh music from every corner. Feyre had to make an effort not to bump into people in the crowded area, feeling like a single, slight touch would begin a fight over what she believed was to be the typical crowd's high ego and self-righteousness.

"When we get inside, you'll find a really long corridor. Tamlin's in the room right in the end of it. The room to the left of it, eight doors down, has a tiny grate that lets you see into the meeting room. That room used to be used to keep animals when this place was used as a fighting ring, so it might be a little nasty," Lucien threw a little smirk at Feyre, making her roll her eyes. "Stay in there until Tam and I leave the room, I'll get you out afterwards."

Feyre nodded in response and continued walking, until Lucien tugged on her sleeve, turning to his right and leading her through a narrow, dark alley that smelled like sewers and piss, which immediately had Feyre feeling the urge to vomit and wondering how she would put up in the room she was to hide in, until they reached a set of high wooden doors at the end. Raising a large fist, Lucien knocked on the door in a rhythm that made it clear to Feyre that the place required a patterned pass-knock.

"Stand aside," Lucien ordered quickly, his voice hushed, and Feyre immediately pressed herself against the stone wall to her right, the darkness and her size both concealing her from whoever would open the doors.

A few seconds later, a peeping window opened in the middle of the left door, right in front of Lucien's face, too high an angle for Feyre to see properly.

"Lucien of the Spring Clan," Lucien spoke, his chin raised, looking directly at the person behind the window.

"Your master's already in," replied a snakelike voice, almost physically chilling Feyre. She had to fight not to cringe at the word _master_. She didn't like to think of Lucien and Tamlin's relationship like that, though generally that was the relationship between the leader of one of the Seven Clans and his subordinates should be like. Lucien was her friend, and Tamlin's too; perhaps his best friend. She liked to see them more as partners, with Tam still having more power, than as a master and his servant.

"I'm here with the debts. My _master_ ," Feyre detected discomfort in Lucien's voice, "Arrived early to attend a meeting with your mistress." Feyre's curiosity spiked during the few seconds of silence, during which the man behind the door must have been considering Lucien's words.

The man cleared his throat. "Very well," He said, and Lucien and Feyre stood, waiting, listening to the sounds of numerous locks being undone, until the large doors swung open inwards. A tall, thin man stood at the entrance, his body almost corpselike, a skeletal, bony hand gripping the door handle.

"Attor," Lucien said, stepping inside, completely blocking the man—Attor—from Feyre's view. "You look positively dead," He remarked, and Feyre noticed Lucien's hands behind his back, gesturing for her to move, to get inside.

She took the opportunity to do so, sliding past Lucien and being as quiet as possible as she hid behind a stone pillar to her left. She watched as Attor snarled at her friend, before the two men made their way down the dimly lit corridor. Feyre waited until she heard the sound of a door opening and closing, until she followed suit. She had to make sure to be extra careful in being silent, because the slightest touch of her foot on the stone floor sent off an echo. The entire place felt cold, damp… Dead, like Attor. It reeked of the same nasty smell as the alley outside, making Feyre wonder once again how much worse the room she was to hide in would be.

Counting down the doors, each which had spiked her curiosity, she made sure to do a quick analysis of her surroundings, before gripping the cold metal handle of the eighth door and opening it slowly.

She was faced by a pitch black room, and once her eyes adjusted slightly, she noticed a slightly lit wall, the grate Lucien had mentioned being the reason light entered the room; and, in the distance of the room, a pile of giant bones. Holding back her gag, Feyre stepped into the room, immediately assaulted by the damp smell of decay, piss and blood, and closed the door behind herself. Quietly, she made her way to the iron grate, just wide enough for her to see the entire room ahead if she turned her head.

The room ahead was massive, almost like a dead, gothic throne room. Empty. Unwelcoming. In the far end of the room, on a dark, high-backed chair, sat an elegant looking woman, her skin pale—almost white against the darkness of the room—and her hair a gorgeous shade of red. Her ruby lips were pulled back in a smirk, one that seemed menacing, deceiving... and her hungry eyes were focused, Feyre realized, on Tamlin.

Feyre's lover stood in the middle of the room with his back turned to her, directly across the woman, with two men dressed in coats and carrying weapons on either side of him, twinning the two guards standing on the two sides of the woman's throne. Glancing to the right, Feyre noticed Attor walking in, Lucien at his heel.

The entire atmosphere in the room was tense, chilled.

"Ah, Lucien," the woman greeted flirtatiously, her voice as smooth as honey, as her gaze shifted from Tamlin to Lucien, who had now come to stand next to his leader. "Finally here with my pay," the woman chirped giddily as Lucien reached into his jacket and pulled out a large, thick package. He passed it to the guard next to him in silence, who walked up towards the throne, passing the package to the woman.

She held the package out with her hand, towards her right. "Check the contents, will you, my pet?" She spoke, and that was when Feyre noticed the man sitting next to her.

His very presence, from such a distance, stirred Feyre. He radiated calm, powerful, intense darkness. Dressed in all black, one leg draped over the arm of his chair, his white, elegant hands were working at the package, undoing the wrappings. His face… was the most beautiful face she had ever seen; everything in gorgeous proportions, prominent cheekbones, hair as dark as the clothes he wore. Feyre felt mesmerized by this man's beauty; so much that, she would have almost forgotten paying attention to the rest of what happened in this strange place.

The man looked bored as he counted through the stacks of money that Lucien had brought in. Sighing, he looked at the woman next to him, and then to Tamlin and Lucien. "This isn't the full amount," He said, his voice, like a sensual purr, swaying Feyre even more.

"The hell it isn't—" Lucien started, but Tamlin raised a hand to silence him. The Woman had a playful frown on her face as she looked at Tamlin.

"Tamlin," She seemed to almost whine like a little girl, "I trusted you, _Tamlin_ ," She mewled his name, "You know the deal."

Feyre could see how tense Tamlin had gotten. "Amarantha," He started, "This is the rest I owed, the final amount my family owed to you."

Instead of responding, the woman—Amarantha—turned to the man next to her and a short, hushed conversation ensued. Seconds later, she turned back to Tamlin. "It seems you're off by a great amount."

"That's not possible—"

"The prices have risen in Prythian over the past year." Amarantha's voice rose. "And, let us not forget the other favour you had called in just three months ago." Her grin spread, making her look beautifully evil.

Tamlin's back straightened, and Feyre wanted so much to reach out and comfort him. "You said that was free of charge."

Amarantha's laugh echoed through the room. "Oh, I never did _say_ it."

A moment of silence ensued, probably during which Tamlin was trying to clear his confusion, until Lucien spoke, his voice rattled, "She lied, the bitch—"

"Language, please, Lucien," Amarantha interjected, straightening her back. "When dear Tamlin came to me to help that little _whore_ Ianthe pay off her debts to the Lady of the Brothel, I, of course, being the generous person I am," Lucien snorted at the statement, "Decided to pay her rather large debts… Which, it seems, hasn't taught her to stop living beyond her means even now."

"You told me you would do it _free_ of charge," Tamlin growled.

Amarantha's smile grew even more wicked. "Well, yes, because you came to me, like a pathetic little lovesick fool"—Feyre frowned; _lovesick for someone else?_ She noticed Lucien cast a glance back in her direction, a frown on his scarred face—"To help a whore you had become infatuated with. Feeling pity, of course I had to offer my services."

Feyre felt anger inside herself, growing towards Amarantha, Tamlin, Lucien—Tamlin visiting a woman from a brothel while Feyre herself was right there, at home, waiting for him at his every beck and call. She felt… hurt. And stupid; yet she had come, put herself in possible danger, all for him.

"However," Amarantha drawled, "You lied to me, Tamlin." Her voice was now once again of a teasing tone.

Tamlin had gone completely till.

"Did you think I'm a fool?" Amarantha questioned, amusement in her voice. Lucien's russet eyes were wild as he stole another glance back in Feyre's direction—something was wrong. "I sent some people to do some research before I gave away so much money to save a random whore. And what I found was rather… Delightful.

"Funnily enough, this delightful little creature I'm speaking of has decided to honour us with her presence today."

Lucien swore. Tamlin whirled around, his head whipping in every direction, looking for something—looking for Feyre. She panicked, stepping back, looking around the room she was in, trying to figure out how she could escape without being caught, just as grate in front of her slammed open and Attor stepped in, a wicked grin on his evil face as soon as his eyes laid on Feyre.

She wanted to scream, from the sudden fright she got from Attor's ugliness, from the danger she was in, but her voice failed her once again. Turning her back to him, she ran towards the door, clutching the metal handle, but Attor was faster, grabbing her by the arms as she thrashed against his bony body. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as his claw-like fingernails dug into the flesh of her arms, piercing her skin, drawing blood; and she weakened with the pain, making it easier for Attor to drag her out into the vast room where Amarantha was waiting, laughing.

She heard her name repeatedly being cried out by Tamlin, who, as Feyre observed, along with Lucien, was now being held by two large guards each. Lucien looked upset, casting an apologetic look towards her, while Tamlin's face was red hot with rage.

" _Let her go!_ " Tamlin roared as Attor dragged Feyre, blood trailing down her arms, towards Amarantha.

Amarantha chuckled. "Let her go, Attor. If you're smart enough, little one, you won't move."

Feyre _was_ smart enough, and when she was pushed down to her knees in front of Amarantha's throne, she decided not to move. Instead, she looked up, blinking away tears from the pain, at the woman causing her lover so much trouble, who had an amused, almost warm, smile on her face, and then at the man—the beautiful man—who was now staring at her, the only one in the room looking perplexed. His head inclined to the side, as if inspecting Feyre, and in that moment she felt more self-conscious than ever. Forcing herself to tear her gaze away, she locked eyes with Tamlin, who looked confused, hurt… angry.

"Tamlin, as it turns out, lied to me about his ties to the whore," Amarantha mused, "in fact, really, he has been hiding this—Feyre was it?—in his home. Now, what would _she_ think of you having relations with a whore, dear Tamlin?"

But Tamlin wasn't paying attention to Amarantha's quips, he was instead staring at Feyre, green eyes blazing, chest moving rapidly with his breathing. " _What are you doing here_?" He asked, his voice booming—angry... at her.

Feyre frowned. "Tam, she was only trying to help—" Lucien started, and Tamlin whipped his head to him, golden hair flying.

" _You_ brought her here?" Tamlin roared, glaring at Lucien, making Feyre cringe, while Lucien looked away.

She realized the how much trouble she had gotten her friend into, and mouthed "I'm sorry" to him, but Lucien's head was bowed, red hair cascading over his face.

"I'm sure the girl can speak for herself," the Beautiful Man interjected, still sounding bored, his voice still sending a sensual chill down Feyre's spine. She looked up at him and he met her gaze, offering a playful smirk.

"Rhysand," Lucien sneered, whipping his head up to look at the man.

Tamlin was frowning. "She can't," He said, his voice softer, "She's mute." Feyre tried not to be offended by the comment. It _was_ a fact, but he made it sound like her disability made her weak.

"Interesting," mused Amarantha, "I didn't think you would be one for the silent type, Tamlin. I always thought of you being loud… Rough." Bile rose in Feyre's throat in disgust as she noticed Amarantha lightly grind herself against her chair.

"I think you have your _whore_ right there to do that work for you, Amarantha," Lucien spat, nodding his head towards the man—Rhysand, whose gaze seemed to be focused on an invisible speck of dust on his sleeve, "So you can stop targeting Tamlin like a desperate, pathetic bitch."

Tamlin didn't stop Lucien from speaking this time, and Feyre felt proud of Lucien for stepping up for his friend. However, knowledge that Rhysand was apparently Amarantha's whore…

"Very well," Amarantha snapped, the smile disappearing from her face, "Straight to business we go then. You lied to me and haven't given me my full pay, even though your family has been indebted to me for three years now, Tamlin, while it was promised to be only a matter of months. And now, on top of that, your little creature has decided to intrude into _my_ territory, I've decided on something that will definitely motivate you to give me my money back… Or, of course, our _alternative_ still stands." The blood-red smile on her face grew once again.

Tamlin growled. "Let. Feyre. Go."

Amarantha chuckled. "I'm afraid that's not going to happen. Feyre here will remain here, as my prisoner, until you return my money to me," She chimed, and Feyre's stomach dropped. "She may even make herself useful by doing some chores. With the sudden inflation in Prythian, the brothel prices have jumped too high for my poor guards to enjoy... Maybe your Feyre can offer her services instead." Amarantha's grin was wicked, and Feyre wanted to slice it off her face.

Lucien snarled, Tamlin's growl grew louder.

"If you refuse, Tamlin, or cause a fight here, Attor is more than ready to put a knife through the girl."

A chill ran down Feyre's spine, and she felt Attor's presence right against her back, a bony finger making its way up her shoulderblade. Even if Tamlin tried... There would be no way for them to get out without at least one of the three of them dead.

"Tam, we can get the money—" Lucien started.

" _I am not leaving her here_ ," Tamlin was livid, his hands balled to fists.

"Either she stays or she dies, unfortunately," Amarantha said casually.

 _Look at me. Look at me._ Feyre silently requested Tamlin. And somehow, he did, looking pained, and Feyre took the opportunity to mouth, _go_.

The whole room remained quiet, colder, more tense, as Tamlin held Feyre's gaze, his expression torn. Feyre nodded to him. _Go_.

"Tamlin, let's go," Lucien spoke, his voice soft, comforting.

Sighing, in pain, Tamlin looked up towards Amarantha. "Let me say goodbye," He said, his voice hushed, hurt. Surprisingly, Amarantha nodded towards the guards holding Tamlin. Shrugging them off, he made his way across the stone floor to Feyre, footsteps echoing. As soon as she held her arms out to him, he grabbed her, pulling her up onto her feet and crushing her against his body.

Feyre could feel Tamlin's heart racing as she wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing her face against his neck, taking in his smell, his feeling. "I'll come back, I'll get you out. I promise," He whispered into her hair. Feyre nodded, rubbing circles against his back. "I love you," Tamlin mumbled, and Feyre pressed a kiss to his shoulder in response. Pulling back, Tamlin's lips found her own, and Feyre tried to push every apology, every feeling of love, into that sweet kiss. His grip on her waist tightened, as if readying to run away with her in his arms immediately. In alarm, Feyre's eyes opened, and she was met with a pair of piercing violet eyes ahead of her—Rhysand, still watching her, still with a curious, solemn look on his beautiful face.

Amarantha must have realized Tamlin's intentions too, because she gestured to the two guards previously holding Tamlin, and Feyre's lover was forcefully pulled away from her. Tamlin let out another growl, but obliged, and turned his head to cast a glare at Amarantha. "If anybody touches her," He warned, "I'll kill them."

Amarantha giggled, and then motioned towards her guards once again, and Feyre could do nothing but watch as Tamlin and Lucien were escorted out of the room.

"Well," Amarantha started once they were gone, "What do you suggest we do with our new guest?"


	2. Chapter 2

Feyre's living quarters for the next few days—weeks?—months?—was a tiny cell in a dungeon, with no bed, no chair, just a pile of dirt and hay in the corner. The place smelled as awful as the rest of Amarantha's Court did. It was just as cold, too.

In fact, Feyre was freezing, and she had nothing to help her warm up.

On top of that, she was served _dinner_ on a tiny, dented, metal plate, and she didn't know if she could consider what she received as food.

She had asked (well, motioned, with great difficulty) the guard who had brought her, her meal, what she was to do if she required to use the urinal, and the gruff man just grunted and pointed towards the pile of hay in the corner of Feyre's cell. When asked about water for bathing, he barked at her to shut up before he hit her for asking too many questions. And then the man left, leaving Feyre alone as the sole prisoner in the entire dungeon. She didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

 _Lady Amarantha_ had given everyone permission to do whatever they liked with Feyre.

Feyre knew what _whatever they liked_ meant. She kept in mind she was there for Tamlin, for _her_ Tamlin. She knew any wrong move could potentially get Tamlin in further trouble than he was already in, but she wouldn't let Amarantha's men abuse her, use her body for their pleasure, hit her, without her fighting back. Until the day Tamlin and Lucien came back to take her home, Feyre would fight.

And that was exactly what she had done that evening when two of Amarantha's guards entered Feyre's cell, slick smirks on their ugly faces. She was ready for when one of them reached out a grubby hand to her, ducking under his arm and jumping to the other end of the room. The man tripped forward and grunted, turning his head to her.

"Now, now, little lady. I'm going to make you finally scream."

As he charged for her once again, Feyre made a run for the iron door of the cell, hoping the guards had left it open when they entered. She grabbed the metal bars and tugged, the rust scratching the skin of her palms, her breathing ragged. The doors rattled with each pull. _Open open open._

Locked.

Feyre had barely any time to take in a breath before she was grabbed by the waist and hurled towards the end of the cell, falling against the dirt and hay lying on the floor, her head smacking against the stone wall. A silent scream escaped her, and her vision reddened, the place of impact at the back of her head throbbing with pain. She didn't get a chance to check for any bleeding when a hand gripped her by her long hair, pulling her up to her knees, adding to the pain in her head. Feyre would have screamed if she could.

She thrashed against the pair of hands trying to pin her down, while the other man slid a knife through the bottom of her tunic and sliced it in half, easily bearing the kicks she continuously aimed at his stomach and thighs.

Tears streaked down her cheeks, and Feyre felt pathetic to be crying, to be showing any form of weakness to these brutes, but she knew the tears were more reflective of her memories, of _the incident_ , than of the way she was being handled in that moment.

She struggled against the first man still as she felt the calloused hand of the second cup her breast, a dark laugh, accompanied by a horrible breath, echoing through the room—

First came sound of the cell gate being slammed open, then came one of the men speaking, alarmed: "Lord—" but he never got to finish his speech, because within a split second both men were yanked off Feyre, and as soon as she processed what was going on, she scrambled to a sitting position, backing up against the corner of the cell, against the dirt, and curling up, trying to tug her tunic to cover her chest.

All she did was sit there and let silent tears fall, feeling weak, pathetic, vulnerable, as she watched her savior—

 _Rhysand_. It was Rhysand, throwing kicks and punches towards Feyre's attackers, throwing both of them against the stone wall, possibly much harder than Feyre herself had collided with it a moment earlier, until one of the men collapsed onto the floor completely, knocked out, while the second slumped against the wall, head bowed.

The only sounds in the dungeon were the echo of dripping water and Rhysand's deep, ragged breathing. Even from the dim firelight outside, Feyre could see the rage reflected in his beautiful features as he eyed the two guards.

"How _dare_ you," He growled, his knee suddenly coming up and colliding with the chin of the still-conscious man, throwing his head back, letting it smack once again against the wall.

Groaning, the man spluttered, "L-Lady Amarantha… She said we have full... permission to do anything, sir." Feyre could tell he was on the brink of unconsciousness.

 _Good._

" _I don't give a damn what your Lady says_ ," Rhysand bellowed, and his voice echoed loudly through the dungeons, almost enough to make Feyre herself cower. "No one gets to touch her. You even look at her in any funny sort of way, I'll give you more than just a few bruises and broken bones. Do you understand?"

The man nodded curtly.

" _Do you understand_?" Rhysand repeated, louder.

"Y-yes sir," The man replied.

"Good," Rhysand's voice was back to its casual tone, "Now get out of here. And take _him_ ," he nodded at the unconscious man, "With you."

Despite being clearly extremely weak, Feyre's attacker scrambled to his feet, letting out gruff sounds of pain as he grabbed his partner by the arms and tugged him, with great force, out of the cell. Both Feyre and Rhysand watched as they exited through the main doors of the dungeon.

Feyre had stopped crying, but the two of them were still panting.

She didn't know what to do as the enchanting man ahead turned to face her, his expression once again unreadable. She backed up further against the cool wall behind her as Rhysand advanced, crouching right in front of her, an arm on his knee.

"Calm down," He spoke softly as Feyre squirmed out of discomfort of how close a proximity he was to her, "I'm just trying to see how bad they hurt you."

It wasn't just his words, but also that smooth, carnal tone in his voice that helped calm Feyre down, trust him for at least that moment. She had even forgotten she was half naked, getting drunk on his presence, as he brought up a hand to touch her cheek. Even with the gentle brush of his fingertips, Feyre couldn't help but wince, and she knew immediately that a bruise was forming there.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Rhysand asked, his breath, minty, brushing against her face. Staring into his beautiful, intriguing violet eyes, Feyre nodded gingerly, raising a shaking hand to the back of her head, only lightly touching the lump that had formed there, beneath her hair.

She watched as Rhys frowned and took his time to analyse her body, holding her wrist in his careful hand, turning her slightly according to his needs. "You're coming to my quarters," He whispered, looking Feyre in the eyes, "I'll fix you up as much as possible."

Despite being in some sort of allegiance—perhaps assistant, lieutenant—with an evil woman, Rhysand emitted trustworthiness—a sentiment, Feyre believed, she would regret feeling at some point, but she nodded anyway, realising he was probably the only person in that entire place who would help her in any way.

"Can you stand?" Rhysand's voice was hushed. He slowly stood up straight, holding Feyre gently by one arm, helping her get to her feet. Feyre was highly conscious of the fact that with her hands no longer holding her tunic together, her breasts were completely exposed… but she didn't care; not when she had been experiencing hell, not when her breasts being shown to Rhysand, a man Tamlin and Lucien didn't seem to like, was the least of her worries.

* * *

It had taken numerous flights of stairs, corridors and doors to get to Rhysand's quarters. He had apologised on the way, saying he was taking a longer route in order to sneak her to his room undetected—if Amarantha found out, they would be in great trouble.

His room must have been at least on the tenth storey—Feyre had lost count of the staircases—because by the time they had reached his floor, Feyre's feet were aching. Rhysand walked with her, his hand still on her arm, gentle, until they reached a set of massive oak doors at the end of an empty hallway. Reaching into his dark tunic, Rhysand pulled out a set of iron keys, unlocking the doors and pushing them open, gesturing with his hand for Feyre to step in.

As soon as she did, the warmth emitting from the fireplace to the left of the room took away at least a little of her pain. As Rhysand stepped in behind her, busy locking the doors, she took in the expanse of his room— it was windowless, with a vast, gothic, dark bed right in the middle, neatly made, as if Rhys never slept here, full of numerous pillows; a set of doors to her right a few feet away, where, possibly, the bathroom was; and to her left, a large sitting area, full of sofas that matched Rhysand's bed, around his fireplace.

It was cosy… Yet, it lacked personality. Feyre couldn't figure out a single thing about Rhysand from his room.

"Go ahead and sit down," Rhysand spoke from right behind her, his voice still hushed, as if he still needed to assure her she was okay.

She felt grateful that he was doing so, though; she did need to be assured.

Nodding to him, Feyre made her way across the span of the room, taking a seat on the sofa nearest to the fire, immediately feeling awful for dirtying the velvet material with the grime on her body. While taking in as much warmth as possible, she watched Rhysand through a curtain of her golden-brown hair, opening various cabinets, taking out several items; walking into his bathroom and returning with a bowl of water; rummaging through what seemed to be a large, dark wardrobe. She felt her face heat up in embarrassment when Rhysand finally turned to her and caught her eye, and she looked away, toward the fire.

It reminded her of Lucien. Of the colour of his hair, his good eye, of the scar that ran down from his brow to his chin. She realised how much she missed her friend then, after only hours of seeing him last. She hoped Tamlin didn't punish him too harshly for what had happened. It was… it was Feyre's fault, not Lucien's.

Feyre became aware of Rhysand's nearness as soon as he sat down on the couch next to her. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him. He had a hint of a frown on his face, black hair coming down over his forehead, almost concealing his eyes. "I'm just going to clean you up," He said, "And then you can change into some clothes—they will be too big for you, I'm sorry, I have nothing else—and then you can hold some ice to the bump at the back of your head." In her dazed state, Feyre almost swooned at the sound of his voice—immediately feeling horrible… _Tamlin_.

Clearing her head, Feyre nodded slowly, and watched as Rhysand's gaze fell from her eyes to her cheek, his hand bringing a damp cloth to the place where she was bruised. Feyre winced at the contact, and Rhysand whispered an apology, making his touch _even_ lighter. As he worked on cleaning her face, Feyre studied his own; an elegant nose, sharp cheekbones, smooth, pale skin… his features were somewhere between an incredibly handsome boy and a stunning man.

Rhysand looked like moonlight in the middle of dark night, and Feyre's hands immediately itched for the set of brushes and paint she hadn't touched in over a year—the set she had left behind.

"By the way," Rhysand whispered, now working on cleaning her hands, "My name is Rhysand, but, please, call me Rhys." His gaze flicked up to hers for just a split second, and then back to their hands. Feyre nodded, trying hard not to be too caught up in the feeling of Rhys' hands touching hers—so sensually, so delicately. "And, as I recall from this afternoon, you're Feyre." He looked up once more and offered a small smile, one that seemed to make him more beautiful than he already was. Feyre tried to return it, but just a little movement of her cheeks caused her pain. Instead, she simply nodded, and hoped her eyes showed gratitude enough.

That was when the handle of Rhys' room door rattled—someone trying to open it from outside. Both Feyre and Rhys whipped their heads towards the door, the action causing Feyre a slight head rush, and Rhys swore quietly—as soon as " _Oh Rhysand_ " came from outside… Amarantha.

Rhys rushed to his feet, quickly grabbing the bowl, clothes, and other materials and shoving them in Feyre's arms. "I'm so sorry," He whispered earnestly, looking her in the eyes. And Feyre believed him. "She can't know you're here—please, can you hide in the bathing room?" He sounded desperate, and Feyre nodded, getting up, carrying the things he had handed her, while Rhys mumbled another quick apology, before she rushed into the bathing room, shutting the door quietly.

As soon as Feyre set the items down on the floor, she heard Amarantha's voice—" _Oh Rhysand_ "—her tone desperate, exasperated. If she were in the right state of mind, Feyre would have rolled her eyes.

"Amarantha," was all Rhys had said before dead silence fell over the room. Seconds later, Feyre heard sounds of moans—a female's—and she wanted so desperately to be deaf on top of mute. Sounds of thuds came, possibly the two of them falling onto Rhys' bed, and Feyre tried so hard not to pay attention. It felt so… intrusive.

Although there was no reason to feel bad to be invading Amarantha's privacy, Feyre felt awful for having to do so for Rhys… He seemed too different from Amarantha, too kind, to be in allegiance with her.

 _Whore_ , Lucien had called Rhys. Feyre had thought, at the moment, that perhaps it was just a general insult that he had thrown towards Rhys. But, it turned out, it was true. If he really was Amarantha's whore, then… _Why_?

She wondered, for a second, if Rhys wanted from Feyre exactly what those two guards who had assaulted her had wanted.

And immediately, Feyre hated herself. She hated herself for being so easily persuaded by a man who was clearly hated by the man she loved. She hated herself for the few moments she felt… captivated, enchanted, intrigued… almost _erotic_ feelings towards this man whom she barely knew, while Tamlin, _her_ Tamlin, was probably at home going mad to bring her back, to keep her safe.

Amarantha hadn't let Feyre go into further contemplation, when a loud, filthy, ugly mewl echoed through the room. She tried her hardest to block out the noises, of Amarantha's excessive fuck noises, of her repeatedly calling out _Rhysand_ , and instead focused on cleaning herself up.

Stripping herself down, Feyre picked up the wet cloth that had been in Rhys' caring hands just minutes ago, and began to slowly, gingerly, clean herself up. She eyed the luxurious tub in the corner of the room, longing for a bath, but knowing it wouldn't be right to do so without permission. So instead, she wiped herself as clean as possible, trying her hardest to remain quiet, before slipping on the clothes Rhys had given her. Like his current attire—or, the one from a few minutes ago—the tunic and pants he had given Feyre were completely black, laced with white string; and they were rather large on her. However, she knew this would prove as an advantage when she went back to her prison cell—the heavy material could pass off as a blanket for her. Finally, picking up the ice Rhys had acquired for her, she covered them in another piece of cloth and held them to her head, sitting down on the edge of the tub.

She didn't know how many minutes had passed that she had been there, because when she realised once again that there were two people _fucking_ right outside the door she was concealed behind, she noticed that the room was heavy with silence. Still, she didn't dare step out unless Rhys told her to do so.

A few minutes, she believed, passed on, until she heard the bedroom door shut, and a few seconds later, Rhysand's voice—soft, solemn, more so than when he had been taking care of her, saying, "You can come out now, Feyre."

Feeling uncomfortable, anxious about her encounter with post-sex Rhys—with any man, in fact, the situation would have been strange—Feyre got to her feet, opening the bathroom door and stepping out into the room.

The sight she beheld was both glorious and heartbreaking.

Rhys was there, naked, in the middle of his bed on his knees, his head bowed, the ebony sheets draping over his thighs. Feyre took in his numerous tattoos: strange, intricate, black lines and swirls decorating his arms and his broad chest; two identical tattoos of three stars on top of mountains on both his knees, which had sparked Feyre's ever growing curiosity. He radiated an ethereal sort of beauty; like a perfect sculpture. As Feyre closed the bathroom door behind her, the noise enough to represent her presence, Rhys still didn't look up.

It was only when Feyre took a bold few steps towards him, ignoring the fact that he was completely nude, that she noticed his face. His gorgeous features reflected so much pain, so much sadness, that she felt her heart ache for the stranger she had acquainted herself with.

Amarantha's _whore_ wasn't really her whore… There was something that drove Rhys to serve her, to give his body up to her, to give up such an intimate, precious part of himself to that _bitch_.

She wanted to speak his name, to say _something_ to make him feel better, but her voice, for the umpteenth time, failed her. Instead, she moved closer to Rhys' bed, and reached a hand out to his unmoving figure, placing a hand on his shoulder—and then immediately moving away. Not for Tamlin, but because Rhys was a man who sacrificed his body who knew how frequently; physical touches would probably make him more uncomfortable.

But it made Rhys look up, towards Feyre, and she saw the hurt in his eyes when they met hers. A frown appeared on his face. "I'm sorry you had to hear that," His voice was a whisper, almost inaudible. Feyre shook her head slowly, and when Rhys pulled back the dark sheets of his bed—to make a clean, Amarantha-free space for Feyre—she sat down. Looking him straight in his brilliant, glassy eyes, Feyre raised her hands and signed, _I understand_. Rhysand needed a friend, at least for that moment.

Rhys' eyebrows came together and he frowned, watching her hands, and Feyre realised her mistake. "I'm sorry," Rhys said again, sounding incredibly sincere, "I don't know how to interpret those." He reached out, grabbing her hands in his large ones, making Feyre's insides heat with the feeling. "Can you write to me instead?" He asked.

Feyre's heart broke, realising there was no way for her to speak to him. Pulling her hands free from his, she tried her hardest to motion—not to sign, but just to motion—that she couldn't write. Lifting her hand, she motioned as if she were writing on paper, Rhys watching intently, and then she pointed to herself before shaking her head. Rhys' eyes widened as he looked at her. "Y-you don't know how to write?" He asked, surprise prominent in his tone.

Feyre shook her head.

"Can you read?"

Feyre shook her head.

The corner of Rhys' lip rose in a sad smile. "Well, Feyre darling," He spoke, his voice, along with that nickname, once again stirring her. "It seems," a calloused, gentle hand rose to push a strand of her long brown hair away from the front of her face, "That we have _quite_ the communication barrier," his tone was slightly more joyful, teasing now.

Feyre chuckled silently at his small attempt at lightening the mood, and took the opportunity to grin up at him, even through the pain that she felt in her cheek.

"How about," Rhys offered, once again looking her in the eye, "Staring tomorrow, I help you with your reading and writing, and you can help me understand what all of your sign gestures mean?"

Feyre didn't need to voluntarily grin this time as she nodded in agreement.

And, neither had realised in that moment, that they had both healed each other—even a little—that day.


	3. Chapter 3

Feyre hadn't realised that it had been a week since she had been left as Amarantha's prisoner until she was being escorted out of her prison cell by two guards to meet her "visitor." Her arms being gripped much too tightly by both guards, she was almost dragged two floors above the dungeon, through dozens of identical, dingy hallways, as people watched and whispered about her, about Tamlin, amongst each other, until she was shoved into a tiny, stone "meeting room."

Even with barely enough light coming from the pathetic crack in the left wall posing as an excuse for a window, Lucien's long, red hair was prominent—like a wild flame. He stood up as soon as Feyre had entered the room, on the opposite end of a worn out wooden table, and made his way across the floor and enveloped her in a tight hug so quickly that Feyre hadn't even had the time to sign _hi_ at him.

"Feyre," Lucien spoke into her knotted, dirty hair as he held her, and Feyre's heart shattered, her arms flying up to wrap around Lucien's broad torso; she hadn't realised how much she missed her friend until that moment. Resting her head against his shoulder, she soaked in the feeling of home that radiated from him, of being loved and cared for; of having her best friend around to make snarky remarks regarding almost everything she did, making funny faces at her when Tamlin wasn't looking, of much needed hugs—for both of them—when Tamlin wasn't around to see and become his usual territorial self.

Feyre had been so happy seeing Lucien that she hadn't even processed Tamlin's absence. _You've been granted visits once a week, now_ , Rhys had said the previous night during the sixth of their daily sessions of mutual tutoring. _So I expect_ he _will be here tomorrow to see you._

Feyre was robbed of opportunity to ask why Rhys had seemed to dislike Tamlin, and vice versa, when a guard showed up in Feyre's cell to notify Rhys that Amarantha wanted him.

Feyre went to sleep thinking of the numerous ways she could kill Amarantha.

"Did they hurt you?" was Lucien's first question when he pulled away and held Feyre by her shoulders, his eyes—the russet and metal ones both—looking directly into her own, his face full of concern. Feyre placed one of her own hands on his, shaking her head. The bruises she had gotten from her first night had almost completely disappeared anyway; she knew there was no point in angering Tamlin, since Lucien would be more than likely reporting to him afterwards.

Nodding slowly, perhaps not quite believing Feyre, Lucien let go of her and nodded to the table. "Let's sit," He said and made his way back to the other side of the table, while Feyre took her seat on the small, rickety chair on her end. She could analyse Lucien better now, from the distance, noticing how unusually unkempt his hair was, how his chin now held copper coloured stubble which he usually made sure to shave, how his eyes were the same kind of jittery a person got when they didn't sleep well. Lucien had been stressing himself. Or perhaps he had been stressed upon by his leader.

Once again, Feyre made a silent prayer hoping Tamlin hadn't punished Lucien too badly for what had happened the previous week.

And then she asked it, signing with her hands, feeling comfort in having someone around who completely understood what all her gestures meant—Rhys had been trying, but he hadn't gotten far enough to understand her gestures; it wasn't his fault, they didn't get much time together in those six days. They had still struggled to have a two-way conversation.

Lucien frowned, his gaze flicking away from her; and Feyre had her answer. Reaching her own pale hand out, she placed it on top of Lucien's larger, interlocked ones and squeezed. _I'm sorry_ , she mouthed.

A small, sad smile appeared on her friend's face. "It's not your fault, Feyre. Stop apologising. Tamlin, he… He had every right to be angry. I disobeyed my Lord, I got _you_ in trouble…" His eyes moved to her face again, live one slow, metal one whirring, possibly doing a quick analysis of her physical condition once more.

 _What did Tamlin do to you?_ Feyre asked, despite knowing Lucien wouldn't tell her.

Lucien bit down on his bottom lip. "He…" He started, "Don't worry, it wasn't so bad. I deserved it."

 _No you didn't,_ was Feyre's response, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him—fidgety, worried. She knew that, with the little time they had together, there was no point in arguing exactly whose fault that day was, so instead, she asked an obvious question: _Where is Tamlin?_

Lucien's actions seemed to slow and he held Feyre's gaze, looking confused, contemplative… she wasn't sure. _Is Tamlin in trouble?_ Feyre asked immediately, fear gripping her. Who knew what Tamlin could get into, being as impulsive as he was, and with Feyre's safety in the question…

"No, no, he's not in trouble," Lucien assured, shaking his head, "He's just… busy, with work, trying to get you out."

Feyre could tell it was a lie; Lucien's expressions, his body language, for Feyre at least, were completely transparent. However, she didn't press on, because any topic that involved _Tamlin_ and _secrets_ shoved just one word—one name—into her mind: _Ianthe_.

But she didn't have the courage to ask her friend about the extent of truth behind that story.

"How about you, Feyre?" Lucien asked, "Are you okay? How… Is it too horrible?" The earnest tone in his voice nearly broke her heart.

 _Am I okay?_ Feyre wondered. Right after Lucien and Tamlin had left her, she would have said no, and would have said yes, this place was too horrible. But… Feyre felt her insides heat up for the umpteenth time as soon as the image of bright violet eyes, dark hair, and pale skin—a man of moonlight in the dark sky, as Feyre had once observed—popped into her head.

So she answered truthfully; Lucien was her friend, she trusted him with her life. _I wasn't okay_ , she signed, _but I was never afraid. And... this place is horrible, it's cruel, Amarantha's a bitch who I thankfully haven't seen since last week._ Lucien had a deep, disturbed frown on his face. _But_ , Feyre continued, _I met Rhys, and he's… He's my friend; he's making it better._

Feyre was prepared for the look of utter shock that had appeared on Lucien's face. "Rhys is _not_ your friend, Feyre," Lucien spoke, his tone slightly rough, his eyes wide, metal one whirring. "If he's being kind to you—there's another motive."

 _He is the only person who's been helping me here_ , Feyre replied, feeling her temper flare a little: Tamlin was the restrictive one, not Lucien. _He is the only one who has told me the truth about Prythian, the truth that even you hid from me, Lucien. He told me about the Seven Courts' names, about magic, that everything Tamlin said about Prythian being a horrible country full of criminals was a lie. He healed me when I got hurt by almost getting_ raped _by two of that bitch's men_.

All Lucien did was stare as soon as Feyre had made her confession. She saw him scan her face, the parts of her body that were visible to him above the table, to check once again if she was okay; and she was, thanks to Rhys.

"Feyre," Lucien started, his voice almost a whisper; cautious, apologetic, sincere. "I'm so sorry—I-I wish I had somehow been there for you, to protect you, I—"

 _Do_ not _tell Tamlin_ , Feyre signed, hoping her eyes expressed how incredibly serious she was.

"I promise," replied Lucien, and Feyre knew, the way she always knew, that he was telling her the truth. She simply nodded as he reached out and grabbed her hands, before she pulled them away to ask her next question: _Why do you hate Rhys so much? What has he done to you?_

Lucien seemed to hesitate, until Feyre nudged his fist with her own, and he started speaking: "Rhysand hasn't done anything to me in particular—don't roll your eyes at me, it's not a hate derived from Tamlin. Be patient." Nodding, Feyre signed a quick apology and let him continue. "Did you know he's the High Lord of the Night Court?" Lucien asked.

Feyre frowned. She didn't. Then again, she hadn't gotten the chance to ask him, not with their _communication barrier_ , as he had put it.

"See," Lucien remarked, "Not trustworthy—he didn't tell you one of the most important things about himself." Feyre didn't agree, but she didn't ague either. "He's the most powerful High Lord Prythian has ever seen; and, well, to everyone, except to you, it seems… He's vindictive, cruel… He'll go to any length to get what he wants, Feyre. He's even killed people for it. He's not merciful. I've seen it."

Feyre couldn't see the Rhysand that Lucien was describing to being the same Rhysand who was her friend, who she looked forward to spending each day in that stone hell hole with, who, with his words and gazes and little quips and _Feyre darling_ made her warm up inside.

But, she had known Rhys for barely six days, and in that time they had barely been able to have a conversation; while she had known Lucien for about a whole year, and Lucien was her best friend.

"Feyre, Rhysand killed Tamlin's family."

That was when her heart stopped. Feyre knew Lucien wouldn't lie to her, or at least he wouldn't lie so drastically about something as sensitive as Tamlin's dead family. But the thought of gentle, kind Rhys…

 _Lucien, please don't make this up, please tell me you're lying._ She didn't care how desperate her plea made her seem in that moment; Rhys was her friend and she had grown—even in just a few days—to care so incredibly deeply for him.

Lucien's frown was so prominent on his gorgeous, scarred face. "I'm sorry, Feyre, but it's true," he deadpanned. "Rhys and Tam were really good friends, once, before I had come to know Tamlin that well—I was still under my father in the Autumn Court. This was when both their fathers were still the High Lords of Night and Spring.

"There's always this strange sort of rivalry between Courts. And Rhys and Tamlin—though Tamlin didn't want it—were both in practice for being future High Lords, along with Tamlin's brothers. Anyone could tell, by the way Rhys and Tamlin worked, how they both were during combat, with their abilities and knowledge, that they were going to be incredibly powerful High Lords someday."

Feyre could picture it: a small, boyish version of Tamlin, quiet and gentle and kind, a natural talent, good at everything he put his mind to… yet, not wanting it, as he had confessed to Feyre so many times.

He told her had fantasies of the two of them leaving Prythian together, of living together, getting married, having children, having a home. But Feyre knew, with the familial ties that Tamlin had to his role as a High Lord, with possible other ties he had to Prythian itself, that even _running_ away would never happen.

"One night, three years ago, when Tamlin and Rhys were only eighteen, Rhysand and his father had made their way to Tamlin's family home. I don't even know how they had gotten past all that security. They hadn't even had the mercy to simply stab them, which would have given them quicker deaths. Instead, Rhysand and his father _cut Tamlin's brothers into pieces_. What's worse is that they didn't just kill Tamlin's father in his sleep, but his mother too—she was the only person Tamlin truly loved, Feyre, before you."

 _He killed them, he killed them_ , Feyre kept repeating in her head, and suddenly, her body numbed with guilt, with hatred for Rhysand, with yearning for Tamlin—who she loved and missed so much.

"Tamlin had killed Rhysand's father as soon as he realised what had happened and came out of his room," Lucien continued, unaware of the pain for Tamlin that was now threatening to explode inside of Feyre. "And then it was just Rhys and Tamlin, and being the pathetic coward your so-called _friend_ is"—Feyre had never experienced Lucien sounding so harsh—"he fled the Spring Court. Tamlin didn't stop him, I don't know why, and it seems, neither does Tamlin. But they've hated each other since then."

Feyre wanted to see Tamlin so bad, to hold him, kiss him, tell him she missed him, tell him she's _sorry_.

She wanted to hurt Rhys for what he had done to the man she loved.

"And then, just under two years ago, came Amarantha, and she played all the Seven Courts of Prythian for fools, acting like our friends, helping all of us out, and within a month of her stay, she had us all wrapped around her finger: all Courts were neck-deep indebted to each other, and further indebted to her; she became so powerful she managed to bring back even a sliver of our extinct magic to use it to curse us. She had brought up a "Court" of her own, and started several more dealings—she took over Prythian's weapons department, our ships—everything, Feyre. She… We say Prythian is led by the Seven Courts, but she's been the real ruler; she calls herself the Queen of Prythian. And as soon as Amarantha showed her real colours, Feyre, Rhys had turned into her lap dog—it helps that he used to, or still has, the most power in all of Prythian. So you can imagine how good a pair the two of them make together, how they've tied us all up to this rotting chain of dealings and trade and rivalries in Prythian. And there is no way we can get out."

 _Bitch_ , Feyre spat the word in her head, wishing it would have been easy to kill Amarantha, to get rid of the virus in Prythian that was Amarantha.

 _Prick_ , she thought, her mind sweeping to the man just minutes ago she was ready to defend, the man who she thought was her friend. _Prick. Prick. Prick. Prick._

"Feyre, I hope you understand why Tamlin acts the way he does with you," Lucien spoke, his warm, clammy hand squeezing hers. "He just doesn't want to lose you, the way he lost his family, his _mother_. And seeing you with the man who did it… it would crush him."

She did understand, or at least, she tried to, as usual… But probably more than usual.

Lucien's voice was incredibly soft now. "A-and after the incident—your incident…" Feyre looked away, feeling small. "I'm sorry," Lucien said, noticing her discomfort, "But ever since that day, he's not been the same, Feyre, he feels the need to protect you. So you can imagine how much it's killing him that you're here—with Amarantha, and with Rhysand."

After Lucien had left—or rather, been escorted away after Feyre's "visiting time" had run up, she had been led back, and locked up, in her cell once again. She knew Rhysand would be arriving soon, for another session of tutoring, and in preparation, she started trying to teach herself, trying to practice writing, with the help of the books she had hid in the corner, under a dark blanket—all of which Rhys himself had lent to her.

Feyre was going to learn to read and write just so she could tell Rhysand what a pathetic prick he was and how much she wanted to claw his eyes out.

Well—she could do the latter, but seeing how Rhys had singlehandedly taken care of her attackers a week ago, and from what Lucien said, she knew it would be a hopeless attempt—one he could kill her for, apparently.

However, by the time Rhysand had arrived in the dungeon—his arrival eerily already being known to her before he had physically made it clear—Feyre hadn't learned even half of what she needed to be able to convey her message.

"Good evening, _Feyre darling_ ," Rhys purred, like a lover returning home—which. He. Was. Not.

Feyre simply shot him a glare as soon as he stepped into her cell, closing the door behind him, a much too comfortable smirk on his face.

"What's the matter?" Rhys asked, taking a seat on the dirty, cold floor next to her, too close for her liking. She felt the same chill, the same electricity, as his arm brushed against hers, despite their tunics acting as barriers. But at the same time, with the chill, came dislike—hate, almost.

When Rhys' careful hand reached up to brush away the curtain of her hair that separated their faces, Feyre fought the buzz she felt inside and pulled away, shifting quickly to the opposite wall, her face twisting up in disgust—more for herself than for Rhys.

Rhysand's dark eyebrows knitted together in confusion, his eyes reflecting… hurt.

But Feyre wasn't buying it: this act, him pretending to be kind, to being her friend—possibly just to spite Tamlin.

"Feyre?" Rhys asked, his voice low, and Feyre shot up to her feet, her body in argument with the part of it that felt seduced by the stimulating effect of his voice.

 _Prick_ , was the first word Feyre threw at him, her hands going wild as she gestured the rest. _Liar, cheat, murderer._

"Feyre, you know I don't understand what those mean." He was too calm, too gentle—too friendly.

But Feyre still continued. _You killed them, he was your_ friend _and you still killed his family over your sick thirst for power, and now he's in more trouble because of your_ bitch _mistress and you feeding her your power—and you think you can lie and win me over because I'm clueless? Because I'm mute, pathetic, fragile? You may have saved me once, Rhysand, but I—_

"Feyre!" Rhys was on his feet, eyes wild. "I. Don't. Understand." He repeated, stepping closer to her, making Feyre step back with each advance. "What happened?"

Feyre couldn't stop herself now. _The man I love is going through utter_ shit _because of you, and I was stupid enough to think you're my friend, to have these feelings… the way you make me feel…I've been betraying Tamlin within less than a week of being here while he's going crazy at home to get me back—_

Her hands stopped moving as soon as Rhys' own had cupped her face, fitting her as perfect as gloves. Beautiful violet eyes stared directly into hers, just inches away, concerned, before they fluttered closed and his face leant closer. Feyre held her breath, _prick, prick, prick_ , going through her head, despite how her heartbeat quickened, despite how his scent—citrus and the sea—seemed to envelop her, overwhelm her; there was nothing she could do, she was stuck between a stone wall and Rhysand as his soft lips touched her cold skin, kissing away the tears she hadn't realised she had released, making her body shiver, her heart beat even faster.

 _Tamlin_ , she thought, immediately bracing her hands on Rhys' chest, feeling his rather quick heartbeat even through his thick tunic, and pushing him away; she had barely managed to move him as a result, but he pulled back voluntarily, looking hurt— _Liar_ , Feyre thought in her head. "Darling," Rhys whispered, his hand brushing her hair away from her face, "Please," his voice suddenly uneven, like a boy's.

She needed him to get out, before she hated herself even more than she already did for betraying Tamlin, for falling so easily for Rhysand's tricks. So she looked him directly in those glassy, violet eyes and mouthed the one word she knew would strike him—the one would that would have had the same effect on her: _whore_.

And Rhys must have understood from the movement of her lips: his wounded expression, the way he pulled back and stepped away from her in shock confirmed so. "Feyre," He whispered, his voice breaking in the middle of her name.

She looked away then, and didn't watch him leave.


	4. Chapter 4

When two guards had come to Feyre's cell that afternoon, she was overcome with joy thinking that Lucien, and perhaps Tamlin, too, had come to see her one day early. She had become extremely lonely, doing nothing but sleeping on the cold stone floor, eating pathetic scraps they called her meals, and staring at every inch of her cell and the dungeon outside one at a time.

She was sure that she would have been able to burn the walls and her cell bars down with her eyes with the amount of staring she had done.

Rhys had stopped visiting, ever since that evening the previous week when she had called him a… She knew she shouldn't have felt bad for it, because of how he had destroyed Tamlin, but a part of her, a treacherous part of her that nagged her all day, felt horrible for what she had said. She felt that part of herself crumble every day when she remembered his face, the hurt on his face, when she had mouthed that word, how he'd pulled away so quickly, as if her skin was poison. That part of her… It wanted nothing more to crawl to him on her hands and knees and cry and apologise.

Feyre hated that part of herself.

Without Rhys visiting, it also meant that their tutoring sessions had stopped. Feyre was neither capable nor motivated enough to teach herself how to write using the books, ink and paper he had given her when they were still friends. On top of that, looking at any of those books reminded her too much of Rhys, and it pained that treacherous part of her. So she hid them under the blanket he had given her, and never looked at them again.

But now Lucien was back, and she would try her hardest to make the most of the few moments she would be allowed to spend with him, and then later, when he was gone and she was once again lonely, she would remember their few minutes together, hopefully more cheerful than the previous week, and would draw the memory out until the next week, at which point Feyre would have strung the memory dry.

The same as last week, her arms were grabbed much too tightly by two guards she hadn't seen before and she was practically dragged to their destination; her little steps were nothing in comparison to their large, uncompromising strides.

However, they weren't taking the same route that Feyre had memorised to her best ability. Instead, Feyre was taken just one floor above the dungeons, the first floor aboveground—the one she and Lucien had entered together, the one she had never been able to leave through.

 _Maybe Tamlin brought the money, we're going home, we're going home._

Feyre knew she was getting her hopes up, but she couldn't help it, because she was now being dragged through that same hallway she had entered two weeks ago, and was being pushed through the same doors she had watched Lucien enter through with Attor.

This time, however, Lucien wasn't present. And neither was Tamlin.

Instead, _Lady Amarantha_ was there, lounging in her stone throne, wearing a long, blue dress that had a rather generous dip at her breasts, along with a rather generous slit on her left thigh—the one, Feyre noticed, that was nearer to Rhys, whose delicate hand, the one that had healed her wounds when she had gotten harassed, the one that had pushed her hair away from her face countless times, the one that had held her face, making her heart stop at the touch, was stroking down Amarantha's white thigh.

Feyre turned her face away immediately, feeling her eyes burn. But there was no reason to be feeling—upset? Hurt?... _Jealous_? Because Rhys was _Amarantha's whore_. And Feyre loved Tamlin. She felt Rhys' gaze on her, she wanted so bad to look at him, from a closer distance, to see that beautiful face that reminded her of moonlight, of those gorgeous purple eyes, but she didn't dare do it, unsure about how her body would react.

Not in her favour, most probably. Certainly.

In avoiding looking at Rhys, Feyre's gaze had fallen, instead, on her audience. The walls were lined with rows and rows of men and women, wearing all sorts of colours, with all sorts of hairstyles and colours, in all sorts of styles of clothing, all here to watch... watch Feyre. Watch Tamlin? She scanned the crowd, all of whom seemed to be judging her, chattering among themselves while looking at her, laughing, smiling. She couldn't find Tamlin, and felt horrible for getting her hopes up.

So instead, she turned her head, and was met with the terrifying face of Attor. He looked like a nightmare, like a corpse, bony hands thankfully behind his back; they frightened Feyre quite a bit the last time she had seen him. However, Attor's wicked, vindictive grin as he stared her down, compensated for that fear instead.

"Ah, Feyre, finally!"

Oh, the amount of times Feyre had thought of the ways she could slice Amarantha's throat so she would never have to hear that voice again.

"Oh, come on, Feyre, it's courtesy for a guest to be polite to her host."

Feyre could feel her temper flare inside her, but she still turned her head to look at Amarantha, already anticipating that horrible snakebite smile on her face. Once again, her lips were coated in the dark red colour of blood.

 _Maybe it_ is _blood_ , Feyre mused to herself.

She was glad Rhys' hand was off Amarantha, though she still tried her hardest not to look at him, even if her body seemed so strangely drawn to him. Instead of dwelling in thoughts about Rhys in Amarantha's presence, Feyre put on her best possible emotionless face, and looked directly at Prythian's so called queen. Amarantha's grin was evil as she stared Feyre down, her left leg crossing over her right, revealing her entire thigh. "Seems as if your Tamlin has forgotten you, dear," She drawled, voice over-coated with honey.

Feyre simply kept looking at her, her face a stone mask. She refused to show any emotion to her.

Amarantha pouted. "You won't respond? Are you not worrying about rotting in my dungeon forever while your lazy lover spends his days in brothels?"

 _Do not react. Do not react. Do not react._

 _Tamlin loves me. Tamlin loves me. Tamlin loves me._

Feyre continued looking at Amarantha, who finally seemed to crack. A hint of annoyance broke her haughty expression and she straightened up on her throne, looking like a real queen, but an evil one.

"Fine then," She spoke, even her tone expressing her annoyance. She was a very weak player in this game, it seemed. "I'm bored, and I'm getting impatient, so I'm going to see how long it takes before I can break your little _whore_ voice out."

Feyre thought she had seen Rhys start from the corner of her eye. But nothing happened. She continued to stare at Amarantha, not letting her curiosity and dread show.

"Every week until Tamlin comes back to me," Amarantha drawled, "You will be brought here, so my guests and I"—she sounded pained to have had to say other people's names before her own—"Can be entertained by yourself and Attor."

 _I am not going to be her whore. I am not going to be her_ _whore_.

As if reading her mind, Amarantha laughed and said, "Not intimately, Feyre, unless you are willing to—then you can find your own privacy with Attor—but you see, Attor here has a specialty in making people scream just using his hands." Her gaze swam to Attor, and Feyre followed with her own eyes, her heart stopping when Attor drew his hands from behind his back, stretching them out, revealing claw-like fingernails that Feyre hadn't noticed properly earlier; fingernails that had, two weeks ago, dug into her flesh and drawn out blood so easily.

The crowd gasped, and hushed.

 _I'm going to be tortured_ , Feyre realised.

"Am—" Rhys. Feyre, before she could stop herself, turned her head as soon as he spoke and looked at the beautiful man now sitting up in alarm, from his seat next to Amarantha. For a second, Feyre thought she had seen his face reflect concern, rage, but as soon as she blinked, his face went back to that arrogant smirk that she had only seen on his face once before, when they had first seen each other.

 _You're only imagining things_ , Feyre told herself. This was the real Rhys. But now that she had looked at him, she couldn't tear her eyes away. He wasn't looking at her though, rather at Amarantha, who was now ordering a guard to take off Feyre's tunic.

"But, your Ladyship, Lord Tamlin's warning—"

"Do I look like I _care_?!" Amarantha's voice rose.

But Feyre, in her daze when watching Rhys, angry at him, at herself, because of the way he made her feel, jealous—though she didn't admit to herself—of his relationship with Amarantha, freed her arms from either guards on her sides and started working at her—Rhys'—tunic, unbuttoning it slowly, not realising that she was doing it believing it would hurt Rhys, not because she wanted it over with.

Feyre still looked at Rhys, and he looked at her now. She thought for a second again, that the previous week's Rhys was back, his face sympathetic, concerned, but then it disappeared as soon as Rhys looked at his nails, his expression— _bored_.

Fighting the pang in her heart, Feyre instead looked at Amarantha, who wore an amused look. Feyre dropped her tunic off of herself, not caring that she was exposing herself to two people she very much hated, and countless other spectators. And Rhys. How insignificant it seemed, to worry about your breasts revealed to people, when you had been through the things Feyre had.

"Well then," was all Amarantha said as Attor crept up behind Feyre, a cold, skeletal hand grabbing her shoulder, squeezing, creating little cuts in her flesh where the tips of his nails dug in, and pushing her down to her knees. Those little cuts were like pinpricks; Feyre knew the real thing would hurt worse.

The crowed murmered.

Feyre didn't show it to Amarantha, but her resistance broke as soon as she felt Attor's single nail drag subtly up her spine. She had planned on looking at Rhys once again, but she found herself to be too weak, suddenly too vulnerable to look at Rhys, which would hurt her more than him.

Her eyes squeezed shut in pain as soon as Attor's claws suddenly dug into the flesh at her back, as sharp as knives, immediately making the cuts burn with fire, with pain. Feyre was glad she couldn't speak at that moment: her scream of pain would have ruined any sort of strong stance she had in that room. She felt the tears behind her shut eyelids as she felt another set of claws slash against her back, from her shoulderblade to her lower back.

Feyre doubled over, already in pain, feeling her tears streaming down her eyes, mirroring the blood now sliding out of her wounds and down her back, soaking her pants, flowing down to the floor of the same horrid colour. She could hear Attor's disgusting chuckles behind her, while Amarantha squealed with delight.

"Speak, little whore! Speak!" Amarantha chirped.

 _I am not a whore._

Attor's nails dug into her flesh again, deeper this time, making her mouth open in a silent scream, in protest to the rest of her body. Amarantha's laugh grew louder, as did Attor's, and Feyre's head started spinning. She must have been losing a lot of blood, already.

 _What will Tamlin do if I die here?_

 _What will_ Rhys _do?_

He must have thought she was a stupid little girl, Feyre thought, as Attor repeatedly scratched and pierced her back, as the edges of Feyre's vision blackened, as she collapsed forward, her hands quickly bracing themselves on the red floor in front of her, her blood soaking it almost making her palm slip; Rhys must have thought she was a stupid little girl for giving her life and freedom away for a man, for letting Amarantha do this to her for a man. She didn't care. But she did care.

Still, Feyre protested against Amarantha, resisted her torture, as much as possible. She didn't urge her voice to work the way she did when she tried to speak to Tamlin or Rhys. She didn't sob or cry silently, nothing beyond letting tears of clear pain fall from her stinging eyes.

Even several minutes later, when Amarantha, still cheerful, spoke, "Enough for today," Feyre held her ground. Her black pants were soaked with her blood, and there were trails running down the sides of her waist. Her back stung from the wounds and her head threatened to shut down any second. But still, Feyre managed to look up, through her tears and sweat, straight at Amarantha, her face set in the same stone expression as several moments ago.

She would not let this woman win.

Amarantha simply grinned. "Take her away," She ordered, waving a hand at the guards, still holding eye contact with Feyre, "And give her a salve to stop the bleeding; we can't have her bleeding out—we need her for entertainment next week, and of course, for Tamlin." Feyre would have spat at her, had she had the energy, for the way she said Tamlin's name.

"Yes, your Ladyship."

Feyre couldn't bring herself to look at Rhys, though she felt his gaze on her, as she was dragged out of the room.

By the time the salve had been delivered to Feyre, she was surprised that she hadn't bled herself dry yet. As she sat on her knees, picking up the tiny container of salve, someone stepped into her cell.

Feyre didn't have to look to know who it was. His presence was known to her, like previously, before he was even there. Feyre stayed quiet—well she had no option other than to stay quiet—but it was mostly because she didn't know _what_ to say, rather than because she didn't want to speak to him.

She didn't protest as she felt him sit behind her, his closeness making her dizzier than the blood loss made her. She didn't protest, either, when he reached around her, his breath warm on her shoulder, and took the container of salve out of her hand.

Rhys didn't seem to be wanting to talk, either, because the next few minutes went by with Rhys quietly applying the salve to her back, Feyre wincing every few minutes when it stung too much. His hand worked so carefully, Feyre wondered how it was the same hand that was used to kill people, to kill Tamlin's family.

When she shivered, she knew it was because of the feel of his touch, of his breath, of his closeness, instead of the cool air on her naked torso. When she realised how fast her heart was beating, she knew it was because of _him_ and not because of what she had gone through.

"Feyre."

Her eyelids fluttered closed as soon as he spoke; she would have leaned back against him had she not been in pain… or topless...

 _Or with Tamlin._

Feyre hated herself so much.

"Feyre, please." His hand had found her arm and clasped it so gently, Feyre almost crumbled. She fought back tears and gingerly turned to face him, not realising exactly how close they really were. She could feel his breath on her cheeks, just through his subtle open-mouthed breathing. Their faces were so close that, if Feyre leaned forward, just less than an inch, they would have bumped noses.

Or lips.

Rhys' pale face had blackened with tiredness, the whites of his eyes reddened, staring directly into Feyre's own. She thought that maybe he hadn't been getting enough sleep; she hadn't been able to notice from such a distance back in Amarantha's throne room.

Rhys' hand rose up to touch her cheek, and Feyre prepared herself for the electric sensation, until he hesitated and dropped it again, just short of touching her skin. She tried not to be disappointed, after all that had happened between them— _after what he had done to Tamlin._

Rhys' other hand rose instead, holding black material, which Feyre realised were another set of his clothes. Her heart started aching at the gesture—and once again she was left to wonder how this Rhys was the same as the Rhys in Lucien's story.

His eyes were still on Feyre completely, as she warily raised her own hand to take the clothes from him. She wondered, for a moment, if Rhys had any clothes that weren't black. Not that she minded; he looked beautiful in them.

"Feyre," Rhys spoke her name for the third time, and it killed her inside, almost longing to be back at that point where _Feyre_ rarely ever came without _darling_ following it. It killed her more, hearing how strained his voice was as he spoke to her. "Will you come with me?" He asked, his voice a mere whisper as he stared at her, violet eyes soft. "Please, I have people at my home, they can heal your cuts."

Feyre hesitated, unsure to trust him. He seemed to notice this, so both of his hands grasped her own, one of them over the set of clothes he had given her. "Please trust me. I just want to help you."

His voice, desperate, pained, sounded so sincere that it had Feyre nodding before she had even processed the idea of leaving with him.

And so Rhys left Feyre alone momentarily to dress herself, and then the two of them left for the Night Court.


	5. Chapter 5

Feyre had been wrong about Prythian.

Or rather, Tamlin had lied to Feyre about all of Prythian being horrible and dark.

She wasn't exactly sure how they had ended up in this glorious place. No, she did. _Each Court is protected by a little bit of magic_ , Rhys had told her some time when they were still interacting. Feyre knew magic had been extinct for decades, and Rhys confirmed so: _Prythian has been standing for centuries, and our ancestors set up these wards. The Courts are farther away from each other than you would realise, there are all these strange invisible magical barriers, walls, tunnels that… somehow, if you're a High Lord, would bow to you, become shorter, defy space, at your command._

Feyre had been beyond fascinated, and also a little hurt that Tamlin had never told her anything about magic being so tied into Prythian.

But the thought escaped her as she took in her surroundings. They had not even come to the end of a narrow, underground tunnel when the damp stone around Feyre and Rhys had disappeared and instead, around them, stood a… home.

"This is the High Lord's—my—private residence," Rhys whispered from behind her, his breath tickling the back of her neck, sending a spark down her entire spine. She stepped away from him quickly, partly in discomfort—or rather, too much comfort—and partly in awe.

The Night Court was beautiful from what Feyre could see of it. Rhys' home was perched on top of a mountain, one of many, each topped with enough snow that it made Feyre psychologically cold, wrapping her arms around herself, until, she realised, the house was completely warm, despite the massive windowless gaps in the wall—walls? They were just pillars.

 _Magic._

Feyre's heart leapt in excitement.

"If you're so impressed by this, you're going to love The City of Starlight," Rhys spoke from a distance behind her, his voice echoing off the walls in the hall.

Feyre was puzzled for merely a second, wondering how anything could be more enchanting than the High Lord of the Night Court's—Rhys'—private residence; luxurious curtains, dining and sitting areas down the hall, massive carpets and rugs, towering marble pillars; a home fit for a king. Feyre had been so dazzled that it had very much distracted her from the stinging pain in her back.

"Feyre."

His voice was a melody, and her name on his tongue a beautiful song.

Slowly, she turned to face him, and the thought hit her like an icy blast from the wind outside: he looked like a king, perfectly fitting in his castle of night. He looked uncomfortable, though, as he gingerly stepped closer to her, each step calculated, echoing off the walls, until he stopped just a foot away from her. His eyes hadn't looked away from her own, his expression uncertain, concerned, still showing a shade of hurt.

 _You did this to him._

 _No, he deserves it for what he did to Tamlin._

Feyre realised how exhausted she was, constantly fighting with herself, with her mind, her heart, her body. She just wanted to… Wanted to…

She wanted to let everything go.

But she knew she couldn't, for Tamlin's sake, so she fought against the urge to learn her body against Rhys when he reached for her. Instead, she held her ground, her chin raised, back straight, arms crossed over her chest, in confidence she knew that Rhys knew was fake. She held his gaze, and his face reflected even more of that hurt she had noticed earlier. It took all of her flickering remains of strength not to throw herself at him, at the man who _murdered_ the people Tamlin loved.

Feyre hated herself so much.

She hated herself more for leaning into Rhys' touch when a delicate hand, the hand that had gently applied salve to her back only a while ago, the hand that had healed her bruises two weeks ago— _no_ , the hand that had been caressing Amarantha's milky thigh just a few hours ago—touched her cheek. Warmth pooled around her face, and Feyre's body betrayed her as her eyes closed, her heart speeding up.

"I'm sorry."

Rhys had stepped closer while she wasn't looking, because his breath was once again on her face, his lips possibly just mere inches away from her own. The scent of jasmine and citrus and the sea was stronger on him here, where his entire home smelled like him. Feyre let her body get drunk on it. She was tired.

Another one of Rhys' large, tender hands was now stroking through her knotted hair, getting stuck repeatedly, yet not pulling hard enough to hurt her.

There was a difference, Feyre realised, in Tamlin's gentleness and Rhys'. While Tamlin touched her carefully, as if she were a porcelain doll, Rhys touched her carefully because he was uncertain: of what she would do, of whether his actions were allowed.

 _But_ , Feyre reminded herself, _he has other motives._

"Please look at me, Feyre." Fighting against the knowledge that looking into Rhys' stunning violet eyes at such a close proximity would snip the thread of dignity Feyre was holding onto, she slowly opened her eyes, and was met with his own.

Feyre felt herself melting, crashing, diminishing, weakening.

Rhys' eyes had glassed over, as if fighting back tears, and his hands were still on her face and in her hair, his face, like she had predicted, just inches away from her. Feyre was warm and overwhelmed with his presence, a presence like no other, one she didn't only feel around but in her.

Rhys' forehead came to rest on top of hers, his hands tilting her head up while his own bent to accommodate their difference in height. Feyre didn't fight, she was too tired to fight, but not tired enough to stop her own arms from reaching up and wrapping around his waist, so, against her heart and her body's will, her arms remained limp at her sides.

"I'm sorry for what that bitch did to you," Rhys spoke, his voice hushed, cracking, like a boy's, his lips brushing against the tip of her nose as they moved. If her head tilted just a little higher, they could— "I… I wish I could have done something about…" His voice gave away and he swore, making Feyre's heart break, realising how much he was struggling.

But Rhys didn't get to continue, because their moment was interrupted with the sound of quick, light footsteps down the hall. Rhys pulled away from Feyre and straightened himself up—not like his arrogant posture back in Amarantha's Court, but just less fragile, yet still vulnerable… comfortable—just in time for when their company appeared.

Two women. The first: tall, golden haired, which was tied back in a braid, clad in a gorgeous turquoise dress of similar fashion to Rhys' usual attire—Night Court fashion, perhaps. She was as beautiful a woman as Rhys was a man. Her lips held a soft smile, while her eyes betrayed her, showing what seemed to be concern as she stared down Rhys and Feyre.

The second woman was significantly small, definitely several inches shorter than Feyre herself, her straight black hair coming down to her chin, a simple, tanned face. She wore a tunic and pants, the same as Feyre, while her wrists, neck and ears held pearled jewelry. She looked rather bored, no trying smile on her face, unlike her companion, while her eyes… her eyes were what had perplexed Feyre: the strangest silver, swirling in her irises.

"Feyre," Rhys began, as the two women stopped a few feet away from them. "Meet my cousin, Morrigan, or just Mor." He gestured a hand to the golden-haired woman, whose smile grew brighter, friendlier. "And this," He gestured to the black-haired woman—was she a woman? A human?—"is Amren." This time, Amren looked at Feyre, and her grin turned wicked, excited. "Mor, Amren, meet Feyre."

The golden-haired woman—Mor—stepped forward, a smile still on her face. "I've already heard so much about you, Feyre." Her voice was lovely, song-like, the same as her cousin's. Rhys let out an alarmed, warning noise as Mor pulled Feyre into a hug, making Feyre almost fly forward with the sudden force. She realised Rhys had let out the noise because Mor would have hurt Feyre's back with the hug, because she noticed him let out a breath and relax his shoulders when Mor only held Feyre by the waist, careful not to touch her back.

When Mor pulled back, Amren didn't follow with a hug. Feyre felt relieved that she didn't. She was still feeling… intimidated.

"Now," Mor said, her hands on Feyre's arms, looking at her still with a comforting smile—Feyre felt grateful for her kindness—"I got you some clothes, as per Rhys' request." Feyre quickly looked at Rhys, surprised, but he seemed to be gazing at something on the sleeve of his tunic. "And Amren's here to heal your cuts."

Feyre had still been looking at Rhys, wondering when he had sent this message off to the two women, wondering why he was being so kind to her, what he wanted from her. Her chest filled up in warmth, thinking, just for a second, that perhaps it was just genuine kindness.

It seemed believable, but Lucien's story made her uncertain.

Rhys had left Feyre with the two women while they fixed her up, and it hadn't taken long, despite both women—yes, Amren included—being more than welcoming, for Feyre to miss Rhysand's presence.

And as usual, she hated herself for it.

She was curled up on a large black divan in the sitting area, topless, while Amren had pulled up a chair to sit behind her to work on her cuts. Feyre had noticed Amren had no instruments or medication with her when she had started, and only a few minutes later did she realise that Amren didn't need any instruments—she was using magic to heal her.

It felt strange; there were no touches, no feelings of air or some magical entity brushing against her large cuts, just the feeling of the stinging pain wearing off slowly, as Amren continued her work.

Mor was seated in a high-backed chair across from Feyre, sipping on a glass of wine, as she watched Amren do her work. Very little conversation occurred, perhaps because their questions to Feyre would be pointless because she couldn't reply, perhaps because there was nothing they could talk about that the lover of the High Lord of Spring would be allowed to hear, perhaps… There was nothing to say.

But a few minutes into the process, Mor spoke, "Rhys told me he's teaching you how to read and write."

Fighting back the shame she felt that people knew she was illiterate, and also not wanting to go into the details of her and Rhys' relationship, of how the teaching had come to a halt, Feyre merely nodded.

Mor's smile was incredible. "Great," She said merrily, "After you learn, we can actually have a conversation. There's so much I want to ask you, and they're not yeses-and-no's-type questions."

Grinning, Feyre let herself be amused by Mor's enthusiasm, to which Amren simply chuckled.

"I'm almost done here," said Amren, as soon as heavy footsteps—Rhys', Feyre could feel him—echoed down the hall as their High Lord approached.

"I hope you haven't talked her to death, Mor," was the first thing he said as soon as he was in eyesight. His tone was light, almost joyful, as if just a few moments in the Night Court made him happier. When Feyre glanced up at him, looking at his cousin, she noticed the subtle smile on his face which indicated that her hunch was right.

She had so many questions to ask him.

"Actually," Mor said, her voice teasing, "We were unable to have a conversation because you're a lousy teacher who still hasn't been able to help her to write or read properly."

Despite knowing the real story behind why Feyre was still unable to read or write properly, Rhys chuckled, and turned to face Feyre and Amren, eyes twinkling.

Feyre melted seeing that little bit of joy on his face, just from being home for a few minutes. It sparked her curiosity, about why he was with Amarantha, about why he didn't remain at home, but it also put her in a state of bliss.

She looked away as soon as she realised she was staring at him for far too long, and instead pulled an arm up to cover her breasts—a silly action, really, because he had seen her topless thrice now, including this moment.

"Okay!" Amren said, breaking the silence, and Feyre could hear her standing up. "All done." Feyre was surprised when Amren held her shoulder and hand, helping her into a sitting position. Feyre turned her head and offered her a small, grateful smile, which she returned.

By the time Feyre had turned her head back forward, Rhys had approached her, holding a beautiful, sapphire tunic, which he draped around her. Thrown, Feyre simply stared at him, while he, after having her slip her arms through the sleeves, buttoned up the tunic, not looking at her.

Despite being aware that Mor and Amren were watching, Feyre didn't tear her eyes away from the beautiful man now dressing her, like one would their lover. She studied those gorgeous eyes, noticing for the first time, the silver flecks that glittered amongst the purple, she observed the movement of his sharp cheekbone as his jaw clenched, the way his lips remained slightly parted, distracted.

Rhys was a masterpiece, Feyre realised.

"We should return," He spoke, now looking at Feyre, making her face heat up in embarrassment. "If Amarantha finds out I brought you here to get healed, she'll…" Rhys didn't continue, but Feyre knew the consequences of their actions would be bad.

Feyre nodded as Rhys picked up a large bag made of black silk, the one Mor had kept next to her, saying it contained hand-picked clothes from the best store in the City of Starlight, making Feyre suddenly embarrassed to have had Rhys make Mor go shopping for her.

As Rhys held out a hand for her, Feyre stood up, waiting for some sort of pain at the movement, but feeling none. Amren must have done a really good job, so, when Rhys grabbed her hand, Feyre gave Amren another grateful smile.

"You're welcome," Amren replied, before Mor stepped in between them, this time pulling Feyre into a bone-crushing hug, one that, perhaps, she would have received earlier had she not been horribly in pain. Feyre returned it with her free hand, the other still, strangely, comfortably, in Rhys' grip.

"Come back soon," Mor said.

Feyre left the Night Court with Rhysand, feeling more confused than she had when she had entered it.


End file.
